Elinor Sullivan Shut Down her lab of tourtue

 PETA sent me some information about another Animal experiment named Elinor Sullivan. She'd trying to figure out if eating a lot of junk food affects a baby. Yep that cost us over 5.2 million in tax dollars for the years 2011 to 2019. What do you think? Can eating junk food every day during pregnancy affect an infant? Yes or No. If you picked YES you too can make 5 million dollars. 

As many or you may or may not no I believe that people who experiment on animals are serial killers in the making who will not make the leap to humans because their victims are endless. They are technically known as Zoosadists because they work with animals.  I also believe that there is a severe psychosocial condition that demands immediate removal from society as large and intensive psychiatric treatment to interfere with the impulse to terrorize, brutalized murder, and create an environment in which a creature pisses itself just upon seeing you.  

 So you know where I stand. Overtime writing about such abominations I have observed that many of them are women. This strikes me as odd because women are considered nurturing. But over the last couple of years, I have been coming across mot and more women who work and run labs that focus on brutal twisted animal experiments. And if you read my article of Elizbeth Murray I take the time to semiological describe her are the girl next door. And now another is that fits the bill Elinor Sullivan  the girl next door who loves dogs and gardening. Just looking at her I would be proud to have her as my daughter. No make-up fresh face natural approachable, sensible.

But peel that back and a monster is revealed. In her lab, lots of "torture sports" occur. Snatching small baby monkey's from their mothers and put then in steel cages alone. Some freeze in terror others screech in horror. They are now part of a (HIT) experiment. It's called the Human Intruders Experiment. I kid you not. 

The idea of this experiment is to stare at the little one until it breaks down in terror and submission urinating on itself. That just one of the fun things Elinor Sullivan does at work. .That's a fun day at work but it doesn't stop there!

Sullivan has to impregnate mothers and then force-feed them junk food and when they give birth their tiny babies are pulled from the womb have their head cut off, Their brains are craked opened to see if the junk food diet made a difference. This, of course, has to compared to healthy mothers and babies.  

Dr. Lisa Jone-Engel,  a primatologist who review the recording of Sullivans videos and research, believed the experiments introduce far too many unaccounted for variables"

in 2010 Elinor Sullivan removed monkey fetuses from their mothers. I wonder did they have to kill the mother to do that or just cut her stomach open. They would quicked separated them 11 in total and remove their brain.  IN another Sullivan and her colleague forced monkeys to run on treadmills at increasing speels until they collapsed from exhaustion. 

IN 2018 she published the result of an experiment in which half the female monkeys' pregnancies ended in miscarriage because the animals, who live in a clearly delineated hierarchical structure were thrown together as a stranger, resulting in an unstable group environment.  (PETA)

And that same year she published an experiment in which 7 month-old monkeys were killed by exsanguination which means bleeding to death.  That must have been one hell of an afternoon. PETA

What can you do? call the  Organon National Primate Research Center (ONPRO)

Email Elinor Sullivan and pray because if this is the beginning of the journey of her career the rest is sure to be a bloodbath of torture and terror she must be stopped and treated before she turns into something we do not  want to see. And,...beware the girl next door. 

Book Review OIiver Twist by Charles Dickens

 

Charles Dickens is one of the great literary giants of our time. He was also an activist for social justice in the Victorian Era in London, England, which spanned from 1837 to 1901. In the book Oliver Twist, Dickens brings to light the horrible lives and perceptions of children. The rule of thumb of the time was that children should be seen and not heard. Because of this, they were also enslaved, abused, tortured, and forced to work under deadly conditions. Children were sent into the coal mines deep into the ground; many never emerged. Orphanages were full of unwanted children, and cruel businessman had their pick.  If Dicken’s did not write about this, many important details of that time of the treatment of children would be lost.  Dickens was well aware of the importance of being a historian, a sociologist, an economist, and how to weave those elements together into storytelling that will last for ages.

This subject was purposeful. Charles Dicken wanted to reveal the horrors of child abuse so he could initiate change. No question he was an activist writer.

What few know about the enormous volume of works by Charles Dickens is that he is the granddaddy of the soap opera form that we know and love today. And some could argue the comic book form as a pictorial genre. You see, Oliver Twist was not written as one big book. It was distributed over time between 1837 and 1939 in serial book form. Hundreds of people would anxiously wait on the docks of London for a boat carrying the next chapter of Oliver Twist to be delivered.

What will happen next? Will it be dreadful and horrible or loving and kind.

We first meet Oliver in an orphanage run by a vile, abusive woman Mrs. Coenry who soon discovers that the state pays her more to take the dead bodies of children away rather than feed them. This is the place where Oliver starts his operatic soap journey from hopeless and helpless to loved and cherished and back again.  Good and kind, pure of heart and soul, would Oliver be able to navigate his way through this cruel world?

 If it wasn’t for Mr. Gamefield who picked Oliver to become a chimney sweep, he would have most certainly died. Child labor was part of the economy, and the children were grateful to be saved from an orphanage and paid with a little food and water. The chimney sweep was widespread child labor. Our main protagonist Oliver Twist is forced to work in this profession. On a daily bases, he was sent up a chimney full of soot, grease, and charred remains of bones. He was small and could fit, and up he would ascend with a broom and try to sweep the chimney clean, descending again covered in ash unable to breathe.  

Many small children died in that way. Some got stuck. To unstick them, their owners would set the hearth on fire with hopes the boys so terrified by the flames would scurry to the top…it worked some of the time.  But children were considered replaceable, and the orphanage was full of more boys.

And so little Oliver’s adventures begin like a boat tossed in the waves. Good happens than bad and good again. Evil people try to hurt him, and good people fight to help him, and when will it ever end? 

Oliver meets the kind Mr. Brownlow who wants to adopt him. But in a horrible twist of fate, Oliver is kidnapped and made a pickpocket by a dangerous street gang led by the Monstrous  Bill Sikes, who employs unwanted children in his criminal enterprise, and his partner Fagan who converteds the stolen treasures into cash. Here, Oliver meets Nancy, a lady of the night with a kind heart who is murdered for helping Oliver escape.  

And there are more cunning twists and zigzags that will leave you on the edge of your seat. Finally, after an exhausting journey, the stars align. Quite by accident, Oliver finds his way back, Mr. Brownlow, who and with the help daughter beautiful, kind, and innocent Rose, discover a very curious mystery. Who is this, Oliver?  Friend or foe?

What will happen to little Oliver? Will he escape the life of a pocket? Would Mr. Brownlow be able to save him, or would the kind Rose love him? Would he live happily ever after or die a horrible death? Or could it be something in between?

If you want some answers to those questions, I suggest you pick up this Classic, hold on tight, and get ready to ride this rollercoaster.

Linda Rosen Dry Bandages Review: This Story needs a Bandage

This Story Needs a Bandage

Review of short story Dry Bandages by Linda Rosen 20/20

Every once in awhile I come across a writer that does not make sense to me. Ms. Rosen is one of those. Before the pandemic, she was part of a panel of experts at the Delray Beach Library to discuss crafting a short story. This event was promoted by the Women National Book Association so being a paying member I thought I'd go. Ms. Rosen represented herself to an audience of writers as an expert on the art of story writing. To get to that point she would have to have an intimate knowledge of non-negotiable structuralist denominators,  character development, and plotline advancement. 

I was happy to be a part of the talk and invite learning. Sadly,  nothing could be further from the truth. 

I was hoodwinked into accepting the advice of someone who was not a specialist in any of these things but rather a butcher of all.  Who. What. Where. When. How? Ms. Rosen has heard of none of these short story rules. The WNBA  of South Florida run by President Andrea Baron used their platform to mislead attendees into believing that they were learning from an experienced writer.  Writing is a wonderful craft but when you play professional and impart knowledge you will get the professional back. So I am sorry I could not be more encouraging or supportive.  I am reviewing a piece put in front of me with questionable publishing credits. 

Mrs. Rosen's story Dry Bandages is missing the most basic element of any story ever known to mankind, the character arch! This is the glue of the story which moves the charter from one state of being to another either to grow in a positive or negative way.  Without it, Dry Bandages is a non-story;  served on a lime green plate, piled six inches high, with hundreds of neon pink question marks about two inches long. 

 It's a story of so many questions and no structural elements. Ms. Rosen is not a person qualified to teach anyone how to write short stories. And if she did not infiltrate herself on the board of the Women's National Book Association South Florida Chapter as Vice President and Vice President of Programming, Ms. Rosen would be taking a course on the basics of writing.  Can you spell conflict of interest?  Onward with the review. 

We meet the main character Diane who is lying in a hospital bed after an "accident." We don't know her age, ethnicity where she lives but we do know her hair is red.  We also know she's got twelve stitches on her forehead, her nose is packed with gauze because it was broken? Her face is bound up like a mummy.  Is this a mystery story? Sadly not.  There are so many things we don't know. 

We don't know anything about her "accident."  Was she sitting on a beach and coconut hit her on the head at the same time a gang of sea lice crawled up her bathing suit? Did she open the refrigerator in a drunken stupor and hit herself? Was she beaten up? Did someone take a short story collection and hit her in the face? 

But we do know her husband's name. It's  Stan. We don't know what he looks like, what he does why he's even there, what time of day it is, or if he had lunch.

The climax of the story occurs when Diane wants a kiss from Stan. He won't give it to her and I'm not sure why. (More things we don't know.) Does she stink of pus? Is he allergic to gauze? Was he going to ask her for a divorce before the mystery accident? Is she annoying? Does her red hair smell funny?

Whatever it is Diane is upset her won't kiss her under all those bloody smelly bandages that she begins to cry, and Stan reminds her in a children's rhyme, "Please don't cry. the bandages have to stay dry." Yep, that's his advice to his wife after a life-changing accident.

And it just gets worse when her brother-in-law Josh the doctor enters who looks like who? And is from where?  And works in what hospital? And is how old?  But nonetheless, he braves the bandages and gives her a kiss and she purses her lips and struggles to hold back her tears.

In conclusion, dry bandages should be used to wrap this story up and rework. 

Everyone deserves a second chance, right?

Her second short story Ms. Rosen is consistent. No character arch, no crafting or any required elements that define short stories or any stories  EVER.  Through the Peep Hole" is s racist stereotypical portrayal of a man with "onyx shin" who's body smells "festers in her nose, cigarette, armpits tobacco, and sweat," mugs her outside of her apartment door and low and behold realizes he's got the wrong white  girl.  

This is the archetype of the "brute black man" which has plagued literature since the 30's. 

The Brute, instead of leaving  grabs her purse, hands it to her politely asks for 5 dollars for a cab -which would get you two blocks NYC. What if she only had credit cards, what would happen then? So he leaves and she waits. THE END.

(The publication The Dying Goose cannot be found and the publication Cracked the Spine had no search of her work) 

Short story 101 is where Ms. Rosen belongs not on a panel of "experts" to discuss the elements of short story writing. She should also study why racist stereotypes are so dangerous.

It's Torture to be Tasty

Tiny little newborn eyes still blue from birthing
      you will be  paralyzed by fear and darkness and isolation
you will go blind
you body will wither
you  will never walk or be able to raise your head
That makes your meat white...

And Tasty

You will be manufactured into the world
defecated into a small trough.

You will never see your mother
know your mother, or smell your  mother

You will never know that  a mother can feed you.

You are just a baby calf an infant a wee one.

You mother.

 She has been trough this many times before.

Her uterus no knows other state
 only  pregnant
Every year 15 years

She is dairy cow
only for milk

  

her tiny babies dropped in many troughs
her  spirit and mind are broke

she will not miss you.

You are an infant little one a Tiny baby with fuzzy hair.

you will be dropped covered  placenta,

your umbilical chord tied to a screaming cow

Bleating for your mother
upside down in filth

  You only existed while in her womb.     
a womb that has been ripped apart from trauma until
used she will go to slaughter

The farmer will get his money's worth.

With your first breath you exist no more.

 Because you are male you can't be dairy, you can't be milked
and you will be buried alive in a pit of despair.

In darkness.
 In plastic huts.
As far as the eye can see.
Millions, billions.
Acres and miles

 Sun.
Baked.
Little baby living in a sauna

You will be  made mad from isolation
blind from darkness.
This we know,
                           "The effects of 6 months of total isolation were so deestating and debilitating that we had assumed initially that twelve monte of isolation would not procuduce and additional decrement.
This assumption proved to be false twelve months of isolating obliterated the animal's psyche". (Harlow)

You will know panic and desperation
and your cripped tiny legs will never know to walk.
You muscles will never grow.
You will not know stand

You are just a baby a tiny infant little one.

Your eyes just open an hour ago
They are still blue

You will be thrown into a pit of despair
a garbage baby
and will be driven mad by isolation, darkness and pain,

You will need him to eat
 and a feeding tube will be  shoved down your throat

This is because Tiny infants isolated like you will often stop eating.
And you would become a loss for the factory farm

You will be left to age like a fine wine in a little plastic hut miles of your brethren you shall suffer

You are just a  newborn, an infant.
a Wee one with fizzy hair

they will call you Baby bobe

Your to be fed in intervals so violently that the force of the food will jolt your tiny stomach,
You will wake and your headwill bob up and down every four hours 24 hours a day
Up and Down
Up and Down
Up and Dow
for at least a year.
Your psyche will be obliterated 

Hundreds and thousand and millions of you in your huts bobbing up and down in concert ever four hours.

You will not know sleep only exhaustion but your mind will be kind it will descend into madness and protect you from the terrors

But you are just a tiny one an infant
a  baby

When the violent pumping stops when  your  stomach almost bursts you will he shit on yourself uncontrollably.
You will feel ashamed

The water will fall from the ceiling to clean you.
Soon you will not understand cleanliness from filth.
It will not matter for you.

You are just a baby.

Between feedings you lay on the floor in the darkness. Your neck
You will never lift your head

You will not  know life without cry, without pain without sadness

You are a newborn  tiny infant

You will age alive in your little plastic hut of tortures
Heaving in silence for you mother until your stomac cramps the feeing interfering with your cries
abd you can cry no more
How many days?
How many hours?
How many monthes
with the chorus of thousands of silence heaves are silenced
in the living groves of hell that surrounds you
We do not know there is no one around to hear you.

 You will never know one like you.

You are a little one
A sweet one

And when that door opens and you nostrils fill with fresh air for the first time in you life
you lift your bind eyes to the sky.

You will know life but death will come swift.
"Hear his heart kill him quickly" the angels sin.

You will be called Veal.
And you will be slaughtered

You will be  cut you up in little medallions
dip in egg

then breadcrumb and fried in olive oil.

We we call you Veal little one.
Born of  flesh born of pain and torture.

But  You are just a little one a baby an infant.

We will order you with fettuccine Alfredo as a side.
We will ingest the flesh,
ripe with toxins from the trauma

Stomach acids will break you down and
I will deficate you,
 just as your mother did

and flush you away

Tiny little newborn

Sweet infant 

With eyes still blue from biry

Now you are Milk fed Veal

You are Gods creature but you are mans shame.